


I built a kingdom of your throes

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Ancient Egypt, Blasphemy, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6623047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is this you speaking, little brother,” Jared whispers, “or is it another trick of your God?”</p><p>Jensen knocks Jared back a step, just once, hands on brother-turned-Pharaoh, and Jared does not lash back, never could; not when it involved Jensen.</p><p>Jensen has been called to betray everything he has ever known and loved, and his brother Jared is now Pharaoh, and has always been too blind for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I built a kingdom of your throes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepypercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/gifts), [somersault_j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somersault_j/gifts).



> GUYS. OKAY. If you have religious sensibilities that are easily squicked; I'm gonna warn you right here, right now. I have no such moral scruples (and I love the potential psychology behind something like this/it's nothing but utter filthy-fiction) and so I've written it, against mine (and God's) better judgement.
> 
> If your ass is eternally warm because you're riding shotgun on the flaming chariot to Hell, come on down!  
> This is a (mildly?) belated gift to sleepypercy and somersault_j because they're kind of amazing cheerleaders and are also the least likely to laugh at this weird mix of history, The Prince of Egypt and general debauchery.
> 
> Also; I'm fucking SHIT at one-shots. 
> 
> Title taken from Stillness in Woe, by Purity Ring.

Jensen’s back remains hunched, and no matter the blessed wood under his palm.

There are things that can never be explained.

He’ll never rid himself of the stench of boils, the decay of cattle in fields that once hosted enough grain for nations; armies.

He’s clean; he’ll remain so, but his homeland is barren, stripped free of artifice and pride.

The dead line the streets in droves but Jared will never retrieve them. They will bloat and expire, flesh burned bright by the sun; the vultures will swoop to pick up second courses for the evening meal.

Jensen will monitor; he is the gatekeeper and the extension of God’s right hand.

He is meant to witness and record and he has long since been afeared that he is too ill-equipped to do either.

His knees crack with the weight of his bones and his Blessing and he holds his cloak out of the muck that surrounds Pi-Rameses.

He glances up at curved pillars; sculptures of The Royal Family. The feet of his mother, molded from mud and sandstone, lay crippled at the base.

There is the one designed from pink granite; Jared was always the more ostentatious of the two, fit for a king; The Pharaoh.

Jensen’s own lays wasted beside his brother’s, onyx and shining, charred to rubble from the fire overhead, smite of the Hebrew God.

Jensen’s God intends to eradicate; the ghost of his Prince lingers, even now.

Jensen’s feet are cracked and sore; his wife pleads with him to wear his sandals, hold himself sound in the face of what will surely envelope the last of himself. What he was.

God has already taken his life, owns it entirely and he scrubs it into the face of Jensen’s brother, rubs it raw.

Jensen does not speak it, dare not think it, but he drags his staff before him, low-scrape melding with rough cries.

The streets are silent but for the gasps of the dead, and Jensen meanders, kneels to dislodge fingers that cling to his person.

He has no great love for these people; those who have slain and drank and been merry at the hands of Jensen’s brethren.

Those great Egyptian steeds who have procreated and desecrated, thrown cousins, brothers, uncles, fathers into the Nile based on worth; on a superstition.

Fear.

Jensen has no great cause to love; he is not a good man. He has wined them and dined them; there is a half Hebrew bastard loitering the streets now with Jensen’s name and hair on his head.

Jensen’s own seed is languishing away in the avenues of Pi-Rameses, clutching to marble and pearl; the Nile will dry before his son’s feet.

The crying lessens the closer Jensen gets to the palace-front, guards hanging empty, most covered from head to toe in boils, blisters upon open wounds.

They haven’t the strength to chase him, to bear down and spear him with poisoned-tips.

Jared’s bastardized him in the air, at the seller’s markets lining the Nile, as far away as Canaan.

Jared has also issued a royal decree proclaiming that he is to be left unmolested at all costs.

He is not to be harmed. That honor belongs to the Pharaoh.

He is to be brought directly to the Throne Room. He is to be courted; Seti I hanging ominously alongside the window-opening.

Seti’s sculpture remains taller than Jared’s and it gazes unflinchingly into Jensen’s eyes.

Seti asks where his son has gone; the man Jensen once called Father.

It is silent now; the night has fallen further and God has decreed that Egypt see no light, be blanketed in darkness until God raises his mighty hand once more.

The blameless fester in the blindness.

Jared remains untouched; his son and the Pharaoh remain clean.

Pharoah’s wife is dying, readied in her sheets to be mummified, and Jensen tallies it up, another murder to add to his conscience and his already-broken back.

Jensen cannot see the paintings of their childhood; Egypt is asphyxiated but Jensen knows that if these halls were alight, Jensen and his brother would dance upon quartzite and granite.

Mischief carved into eternities.

Jared is right where he always is, in between the columns of the Hypostyle Hall, cracked and bruised.

Jensen’s body itches to recall how to bow for Amun, offer him praises in that lilting voice that Jared teased and his wife adores.

“You have come to pay your respects?”

Jensen’s spine stiffens, foreign fabrics chafing where once he would’ve worn none.

Jared remains golden and sun-pressed, cream _shendyt_ wrapped around his waist, pleated with wheat-grain.

Jared’s eyes are older, time has been far too kind and, in the same benevolent hand, brutal.

_Run faster little brother, or you shall have no hopes to keep up with your future Pharaoh_

_What shall you call me then, Jen--let me take you in Father’s Great Hall? Before the histories of our fathers and theirs before them?_

_Will you see me coronated and turn pink-blush with my seed?_

Jensen has so much to atone for that he can barely see straight for the weight of it.

His wife proclaims that he has been Chosen.

Set aside and afloat on the Nile to stand up for his people, a way of life that is not so much living as it is existence.

Jensen loves his God. His God has shown him mercy where Egyptian hands would’ve made a eunuch out of him. Second son, second born.

_Second born, second place!_

“Idle prattle is your favorite pastime, Jen,” Jared says, smooth-grape _yrp_ in his mouth.

“What has quelled your tongue?” Jared asks, stalking closer; he is uninhibited; he can see Jensen clearly. As much as he always has, probably.

“Your God?”

Jared’s voice coils and snaps and Jensen’s staff rattles to meet the earth.

“He has my hand; that is so.” Jensen’s voice remains steadfast, another product of this God who shows him infinite kindness.

“Where was your God then,” Jared begins, “when I had you bent just so, over the statue of Osiris, shendyt rucked about your waist?”

Jensen’s eyes flicker but he remains unsurprised. Jared does not bear his hand close to his chest; he has no need for such maneuvers.

He has been borne into a land where nothing is not his own and everything is ample and free.

Jensen was always Jared’s for the taking.

“Amun remained,” Jared says, arms crossed across a naked chest, body lean and motionless.

“Ra shone upon your face, covered as it was in bliss,” Jared spits, and Jensen aches to take a swing, fight his brother, man to man, wrap lighter skin around his brother’s silk-throat.

“Never you trouble yourself with what has passed, brother,” Jensen replies, and Jared takes another two steps, shoves himself right into Jensen’s space. As if he owns the air Jensen’s breathing.

“Is this you speaking, little brother,” Jared whispers, “or is it another trick of your _God?”_

Jensen knocks Jared back a step, just once, hands on brother-turned-Pharaoh, and Jared does not lash back, never could; not when it involved Jensen.

“It is just us, Jared,” Jensen sighs, “I have not come here to fight you--”

Jared’s laughing, tears running down his face, and Jensen thinks his life-wood, staff of God, would crack from the ache were it not sanctified.

“You have not?”

Jared is working up his wind and Jensen has no place here, should have never crossed over desert and blanket-air to show up on his brother’s doorstep like a beggar.

To put the mightiest of kingdoms to shame.

There must have been a better man. Not a lesser man, perhaps, but Jensen is ill-suited for the vibrancy of this betrayal.

Jensen was worse than most; he has been running from so many things.

“Has it all been a misunderstanding?” Jared says. “Have you come to join me on my Throne?”

Jared wraps one hand around Jensen’s bicep and squeezes; blood bubbles to the surface.

“Have you come to bear my sons? Be my sodomite?”

Jensen attempts to pull free; Jared’s violent with the best of them and Jensen has ripped away all that Jared has known, all that he has ever been bred to believe in.

Given him a new God, a new moral code where Jared has never before owned one.

Jay, well muscled from the Earth and sands, to bow before a sea of men not worth their weight in the jewels upon his _sekhemti_.

“This is not about you, nor is it about me, strange as that may be for you to understand,” Jensen grits out, and Jared’s hand tightens, gold spiraled-rings cutting into Jensen’s bare flesh.

“I have come to set my people free. They are dying,” Jensen says, voice rising, “in your sands and in your palaces and before your eyes and you have never given a thought to it!”

Jared’s fingers wind so tight that Jensen’s eyes prick with the pain of it.

“ _I_ have never given thought to it?” Jared yells, “as if I were alone, whoring my way about Egypt, tally-marks on our bedposts,” Jared says.

“They were not _your people,”_ Jared says mirthlessly; “they spread their legs for a Prince of Egypt just as readily as you spread yours for Pharaoh,” Jared says.

“You were not yet Pharaoh,” Jensen says, as close as he can come to acknowledging it; the sin of his new God; the one who comes to save, came to clean.

“And I am the morning and evening star,” Jared says, Sphinx-eyes glitter cold and then Jensen is spinning, cheek pressed to shivering marble, ass canted out.

Jensen could fight; he thinks.

Call forth all of the might from above that Jared has witnessed and abhors.

But Jensen knows he is not long to have a brother. To have anything like this ever again.

“You come back,” Jared’s saying, and Jensen hears a ripping, his brother has torn his own shendyt in two and Jensen’s cloak is wrenched down his back.

Jensen’s spine shudders as his foot brushes against his staff but Jared does not pause, not for anything; never did.

“I see you, in my Hall, with my wife, my son.”

Jared’s broad palm falls on Jensen’s upturned ass, cream-pale underneath what he knows is the dark of Jared’s hand.

“Amun-her asks me,” Jared says quietly; “he says, ‘who is that man, father, that he may come into your Palace unannounced, that he may call you _brother?’_ ”

Jensen’s face is wet and then Jared’s hand slips lower, slides between the crease of Jensen’s cheeks and rests heavy against the tight clutch of his hole.

Jared’s fingers disappear, into Jensen’s mouth. Jared prods his fingers forward, gentle like the boy of a forgotten summer, and Jensen’s mouth works on memory, spit-slick and wet around Jared’s digits.

“I say to him; I say, Amun-her, that is your Uncle, your _family,_ ” Jared grits out, and he abruptly nudges the two fingers deeper, up to the second knuckle.

Jensen cannot hope to staunch his cry, bent forward for the Pharaoh of Egypt, bare-assed and panting; Savior of his people.

Jared’s voice goes lightheaded; he screws tight and his fingers drag over that sweltering place that sends Jensen’s cock leaping, dripping with purple and red, screwed up tight against alabaster.

“He is my best friend,” Jared says, and his voice is thick and Jensen makes a motion to pull away from Jared’s all-encompassing presence; to leave.

He was not sent here for this.

There is something animated in such a violent end.

“He has come to love me,” Jared continues, “the way I never have been, or never will be, again.”

Jared’s fingers dry-slide free, and Jensen’s hole stutters on nothing.

Jared’s cockhead snakes closer, smears around tight flesh and then Jared buries himself to the hilt, punches out a wet gasp from Jensen that sounds more like a last breath.

Jared holds still, sweat-damp ends of his head trembling against Jensen’s exposed shoulder blade.

Jared’s hands seek Jensen’s hips and he drags Jensen forward and almost off, only to tug him back into place.

Jensen grunts with pleasure, with the taking, and Jared’s mouth runs away.

“But my brother,” Jared pauses, “he only sees me for what I have become, the same as the multitude.”

Jared hisses as Jensen clenches his insides, swallows around Jared’s thick cock, and Jensen’s hands scrabble for purchase on a splintered column.

“My brother has seen me as Pharaoh, where he once saw me as friend, as lover,” Jared says; his voice is wide and brittle and Jensen should have never come back.

Should have never left his village and his home.

“He has come for these people that distrust him so; when I would never have had you slandered,” Jared says.

“Jared,” Jensen says, but his brother fucks harder, shoves the words right back down Jensen’s throat.

“Pharaoh speaks,” Jared says, and Jensen bends to his will; the way he was raised, trained.

This rebellion rankles, although it remains necessary. Jensen’s needs and desires are no match for the well-being of millions.

That is a distinction Jared cannot make. Nothing has ever been more important to him than Jensen.

The having.

“Because I have loved you since our mother first brought you to me,” Jared says, and he reaches below and under, fists Jensen’s cock and Jared’s hand glides down smooth, soaked as Jensen has become.

Jared leans lower, lips bracketed around Jensen’s ear, hair tickling the pinkened side of Jensen’s profile.

“Were I to give you these _people,”_ Jared says, so hot-desperate that Jensen can only grind backwards and pray for forgiveness all the while.

“Would that be cause enough to make you stay with me?”

Jensen’s mouth falls open on an audible groan and he spills his seed across his Pharaoh’s hand.

Jared’s hips pump mindlessly, once, twice, and then he follows suit, branding Jensen’s insides in the way only he knows how to do.

-

“Take that to your people,” Jared says, facing away from him, naked as birth and unashamed.

Jensen tugs his cloak down into place, bends to retrieve his staff without exacerbating the soreness in his backside, the leak of Pharaoh down both thighs, cream and penance.

“The next will be the worst yet,” Jensen says; he can barely see his brother for want of tears.

Jared’s proud back flexes and Jensen follows the line of Jared’s spine down to the high swell of his backside.

“It will be the last,” Jensen confirms, “but it will break you--Jared, please, for the sake of your Gods--” Jensen cries, but Jared whirls around, face like thunder.

“THERE WAS A TIME,” Jared yells, so cacophonous that Jensen’s mouth snaps shut and he retreats inside himself; there was never any hope here at all.

“There was a time,” Jared repeats, softer, “when you thought me your God.”

Jensen finds; that is both problem, and solution.

-

“You have my permission,” Jared says, hunched over, knees split on chilled marble, “to set your people free and leave my lands.”

Jensen is done with air, the act of breathing, and he steps forward, mindless, hand stretched out for his brother’s shoulder.

He is so damned selfish, to want to touch, after _this,_ to want the feel of his brother’s warm skin and frank smile.

“Do not touch me,” Jared says, dry-hiss that lacks the bite Jensen would have loved to feel.

Jensen cannot see Amun-her’s face, the corpse of his nephew, shrouded and huddled in Jared’s brawny arms, but he knows the look, just the same.

“Oh G-God,” Jensen chokes out, tears traveling down his cheeks, sticky-wet and cumbersome.

“Oh God, Jared,” Jensen says, pressing his luck past any limits.

“Rameses is the name my father provided me for my time as Pharaoh, as his father renamed him, and his that came before that,” Jared says, head bowed over the outline of his son’s features.

“Your brother is dead,” Jared says, and Jensen is backing away, eyes trained on Jared’s form; habits die crippled.

“Take your people,” Rameses finishes, “and leave us be.”

Yes; they have told him that his God is one of vengeance.

 

**Author's Note:**

> shendyt: male attire; kilt-like garment  
> Yrp: wine  
> sekhemeti: Crown of the Pharaoh of Ancient Egypt. Known as the Two Powerful Ones.


End file.
